


Dear Amelie Potter

by Lyn_Laine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Female Harry, Female Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-18 14:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12390222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyn_Laine/pseuds/Lyn_Laine
Summary: Two differences: Harry is born a girl.  Petunia, who always wanted a daughter, is incapable of having children and has no Dudley to eat up her energy, patience, and adoration.  Does this mean immediate undying love?  ... No.  But love will form over time.





	1. Definitions of Childcare

November the first started out as an ordinary morning. Ordinary mornings were especially prized in the Dursley household. Going downstairs, starting the morning tea, getting out the eggs for breakfast - remembering the milk. 

Right. The milk.

It was about six o’clock in the morning and Petunia Dursley was still sleepy as she took the empty milk jugs out onto the curb, opening the door - there was a _shifting_ near her feet. She looked down at the doorstep, and screamed. 

There was a _baby_ lying there. A _baby._

Petunia looked around furtively. The child had begun wailing, its piercing cries rattling the entire silent and neat private estate that was Privet Drive. What was she to do? If she took it in, she would look like a kidnapper. But if she left it out here, she would look like a kidnapper _and_ a child abuser.

Taking the baby in the house, then. It was cold, anyway. Who on earth left a baby outside in the night during November?

She picked up the child, brought it inside, and set it on the table. Hearing its cries, Vernon thundered down the stairs, tie still half undone - and he paused, staring.

“Is that - is that a _baby?”_

“No, Vernon, it’s an elephant,” said Petunia tersely. “It was left on our doorstep. Probably some homeless woman who saw our home and knew we had some amount of money. Let’s see.”

Quickly and clinically, she unwrapped the child.

“A girl,” she said. “It doesn’t look good. A toddler. Probably still unable to speak much yet. Full head of hair, but facial scarring.”

 _“Facial_ scarring?”

“Come look.”

Vernon hurried over and stared down at the scar on the baby’s forehead. “It’s shaped like lightning,” he murmured, confused. “That must mean -”

“Deliberate. Yes,” said Petunia. She looked down at her feet. A letter had dropped from the folds of cloth surrounding the baby and onto the kitchen tiling. “Vernon - she came with a letter.”

Vernon had begun to swell up with indignation. “Well,” he said, trying hard to smile through sheer fury, “if they think we’re taking in this child out of some sense of guilt, they’ve got another thing coming. This girl is going to child protective services -”

“Oh, Vernon, do stop being horrible for a minute,” said Petunia wearily. “Let me read the letter.” It was an extremely undignified thought and she would never have said it out loud, but it was too early for this shit.

The baby girl settled down - probably just due to sheer warmth, the idiots - as Petunia unfolded the letter and began to read. Her heart stopped for a moment. This was familiar handwriting…

-

Dear Amelie Potter,

If you are reading this, it means your aunt and uncle did decide to take you in. I hope whoever is reading this finishes what they are reading before coming to any sort of decision.

You see, there is a whole world full of witches and wizards out there, a world entirely hidden from the Muggle - or non magical - world. You are a witch, Amelie. You are one of them.

But as wonderful as our world often is, it has its problems. Wizards separated from Muggles during the witch hunts, and some of wizarding kind have never forgotten this. There is a strong hatred among many close-minded witches and wizards for anything Muggle at all.

One such wizard fashioned himself Lord Voldemort, though most fear even to speak his name. He gathered an army full of followers, also espousing Dark and violent magic, and they tried to take over wizarding Britain by force. A civil war ensued.

Your parents fought on the side of the Light, protecting Muggle culture, Amelie. Your mother Lily was a Muggleborn herself, your father James Potter from a long line of ancient wizarding stock. They were members of a fighting organization called the Order of the Phoenix, and a very powerful witch and wizard.

But when they became pregnant with you, they went into hiding. They wanted to protect you. They lived for a long time in a cottage in a village called Godric’s Hollow. You were born there, born in hiding.

But Voldemort found and targeted your family. He came to your house one night - October thirty-first, 1981 - and killed your parents in front of you. Your mother was killed trying to shield you, her baby girl, from an attack - a sacrifice of pure love. And no matter what one’s political or life affiliation, I believe that is one of the purest, most selfless, and bravest acts anyone can make, to sacrifice oneself for one’s child.

Her love magic protected you, making Voldemort unable to touch you - even by magic. So full of Darkness, he could not bear to touch something so good. And so when he aimed the Killing Curse at you, it rebounded - leaving a curse scar on your forehead - and hit him instead. He is gone in body and in magic, but I believe his soul may be out there still, or what remains of it. But the war is essentially over.

To that end, my job is to keep you protected. You are already quite famous among our people, as the Girl Who Lived, so I am placing you with two Muggles, who I hope will raise you just as if you were their own ordinary child. I do not want you to grow up with a queen sized ego.

However, I have a deeper reason for placing you here. As long as you live with your mother’s blood, her protection extends to your entire place of residence. You cannot be touched there until you come of age at seventeen. You cannot be harmed, not even by Voldemort, and that is the only way you cannot be harmed. And when you choose to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, your parents’ alma mater, you will be protected there as well.

I am sure life may become very difficult for you. You will not feel like you fit in. You will have spurts of magic you may not be able to control. But those quirks do not make you ugly, Amelie - they are the things that make you the most beautiful of all.

We will come back for you when it is time for you to attend Hogwarts at eleven. Until then, enjoy anonymity - enjoy being just another person in the crowd.

Yours Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Leader of the Order of the Phoenix, Hogwarts Headmaster

-

Petunia had sat down, hand over her mouth, wordless. She sagged in her seat. Silently, she handed the letter over to Vernon to read.

Vernon became angry. “This can’t be right! We’re not taking in this - this _thing!”_ he said forcefully. “We’re not -!”

“The child stays, Vernon.”

Vernon looked up, caught off guard and bewildered. “... What?”

Petunia took a deep breath and looked up at her husband. “The child stays,” she said, iron in her voice. “My sister… however we felt about her, my sister sacrificed herself for this child. And living with me is the only thing that can keep her safe. My parents are dead.

“The child stays.”

Vernon was silent and pale as Petunia stood, hands on her hips, and looked out the kitchen window at the quiet, private street with its spacious white houses. Her normal haven. Gone. Lily… Gone. Petunia put a hand over her mouth again, trying not to cry. Silence in the Dursley home.

“She will _not,”_ said Vernon at last, “be a replacement for the child _we couldn’t have.”_

Petunia finally lost it. She whirled around and shrieked, _“Do you think I want this?!_ What, do you think it doesn’t _goad_ me that I always wanted a daughter, and my _loathed_ sister had one, and now it’s been thrown in my face?! Do you think I get some sort of sick pleasure from taking in a baby girl I know is a freak?!

“But I don’t exactly have a lot of options, do I?! Do you fancy sending this witch to a Muggle orphanage?! After she just watched her parents be _murdered_ in front of her as an infant?! My sister…” Petunia’s voice broke. “My sister has just been _murdered,”_ she whispered harshly.

Vernon flinched and just _stared_ at her.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Vernon -” And Petunia at last fully screamed, not even caring if the neighbors heard, _“They just left me with no help with money and not a lot of options!”_

“We… we can afford the kid…” Vernon said weakly, raising his hands. “Alright.” He steeled himself. “Alright, fine.” And he seemed to give up the matter entirely, becoming passive aggressively silent and angry. “Fine.”

A pause.

“But I’m not having one in the house, Petunia,” said Vernon quietly at last, and this time it could be clearly heard - he was the one putting his foot down. “We are going to stamp the magic out of that girl. And she is going to be grateful for it.

“No special gifts. No moments of joy. No allowance for imagination. No asking questions. Strict controls. She must never see that letter. She must not know who and what she is. And… and when this magic comes… she must be punished. So it doesn’t come again.”

“... Without telling her what she is?” Petunia asked, expressionless.

 _“Correct,”_ said Vernon harshly. “Her magic… it will figure it out.” He waved his hand vaguely. “This - this girl - she will grow up to be normal. She will be nice at dinner parties. Have good manners. Go on to be a nurse, a secretary, a grammar school teacher, a housewife. Not a single drop of imagination or fanciful curiosity in her body.

“Are we clear?”

“... Of course,” said Petunia quietly, arms crossed. “I agree.”

“Now… much of this must fall to you,” said Vernon, more careful. “I’m at work at Grunnings Corporation during the day, and…” 

“And we have no other children,” said Petunia. “Yes, I know. I don’t like it. But I’ll do it.”

“You’re very brave,” said Vernon kindly, putting a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

This was small comfort.

Vernon went to work as usual. Petunia tried to gather her thoughts alone in the quiet… The first thing she decided she had to do was phone child protective services about an adoption. The girl did have to go to school at some point, and besides, Petunia was not going to be arrested because “wizarding kind” were generally idiot degenerates.

But when she said her name, the woman on the other end of the line seemed pleased. “Oh, Mrs Dursley! Congratulations on your recent adoption! Miss Amelie Potter, one year old this last July thirty-first, yes?”

“Y… yes. Thank you,” Petunia whispered. “That’s all.” 

She hung up and stood in the silence, feeling very cold. Just how much reach did these people have?

At last, she walked over and stood beside Amelie, hands on her hips. Amelie. It wasn’t a bad name, after all - just unique enough, but not too strange. “And well, Amelie?” she said. “What to do with you?”

She started as she looked closer at the baby. The girl had a head of thick black hair, shiny and luscious… but she also had Lily’s eyes as she looked up at Petunia. The same bright green, the same almond shape. For a moment, it was like seeing her sister again, and Petunia took a deep, shaky breath and hurried away from the thought. She looked away, feeling scattered.

“Formula,” she decided. “Baby food. Diapers. Clothes. Car seat. Cot. Right.”

She picked up Amelie, holding the girl gingerly in her arms as if magic was contagious, and walked out with her down the road to her friend Yvonne’s house. She knocked, and Yvonne opened, puzzled, holding a cup of tea and still in her nightgown and bathrobe.

“What’s wrong -?” Yvonne paused in surprise as she saw the baby in Petunia’s arms.

“I need help,” said Petunia with some amount of panic.

-

“So they’re gone in a car crash? Just like that?” said Yvonne in alarm. Amelie had been left with Yvonne’s husband back at the house as they went out shopping together. Yvonne was driving them into Surrey city, into town.

“Yes,” said Petunia. It was the most sudden and violent thing she could come up with.

“I didn’t even know you had a sister.”

“We didn’t get on,” said Petunia thickly, and damn Lily for making her eyes sting and for making her finally admit to her existence post mortem.

“Oh, Petunia, I’m sorry,” said Yvonne sympathetically. “But - hey. You’ve got a baby. Good thing, right? It’s not all bad.”

That was debatable.

They drove into town and went all up and down downtown, loading things into Yvonne’s car. She’d taken the big minivan, figuring they’d need it.

The car seat was easy enough, but everything else became surprisingly complex and mired with decisions.

In the end, torn, Petunia decided if she was going to do the thing, she was going to do it right. She purchased eco friendly disposable diapers, a type of soy formula gentle on the stomach, and health oriented baby foods filled with fruit and vegetable substances. She even bought a kind of gentle lavender bath soap for baths. Just because the girl wouldn’t be getting special things didn’t mean she couldn’t have healthy basics.

“Is this… is this hard for you?” Yvonne asked her once.

“No,” said Petunia absently, looking through baby clothes. “I’d been preparing for this baby nonsense for years. And it helps - to keep busy, keep my mind off things.” Again, her brain flitted away from any pain. “But… the baby clothes and the cot will be hardest of all.”

“Are you going to decorate the room?” Yvonne asked.

Petunia paused. Her first thought was, no, a closet would do for _Lily’s_ baby. But then she pondered.

The Dursley house had four bedrooms. One was for Vernon and Petunia; one was a guest bedroom. The other two were empty, a tribute to the children they’d never been able to have, a kind of empty in memoriam.

Petunia had been trying to find a way to make those two rooms into something else for years. But suddenly, with a baby, it all became easier. Of course. A bedroom for the girl and the other room could be made into an office and sewing room.

She felt uneasy giving the child anything… but was it really giving, giving a child a bedroom?

“We’ll have to decorate,” she decided. “It would look odd not to.” Yvonne would be over to visit, after all. She looked over at a staring Yvonne and simpered a smile. “I mean, it would be odd not to, would it not?” she said airily.

So Yvonne and Petunia picked out a cot, room decorations, and baby clothes together. It was fun for Petunia, despite herself.

A new romper was soft yellow with a cute little smiling pineapple on it. One had a flowery picnic scene. Another, in pink, had a smiling little piggy with a hairbow on it. There was a white bodysuit with a smiling peanut and a heart. Another was decorated in pink flamingos. 

In dresses, there was a light blue and beige piece with a woodpecker picture, a lovely brown and pink plaited one with a side picture of a pink heart growing out of a potted plant, and a dignified blue seal on a kind of shirt dress.

Her pajamas all had ducks and flowers, along with a few plaid checkerboard patterns.

The cot was in a roof tent playhouse design, with a cornered tent-like top as a mini roof and a playhouse sort of side style. One side of railing could be taken on and off to give the cot a more open feel. It was in muted white and soft grey colors, as was the knit animal mobile she bought to go along with it. It had a zebra, a giraffe, an elephant, and a lion.

But the room decorating was where things really got crazy.

-

The finished nursery was a neutral creamy color. Neutral baby bedding with a soft striped rail cover and pleated cot skirt. Perfect in a white wooden tent playhouse cot with its hanging knit animals mobile. Whites, khakis, and soft greys in furniture and window curtains; neutral colored baskets for clothes and linens. Petunia made sure of lots of natural lighting through the big window. She stenciled bold black and grey flower patterns onto the walls, however, and added accents like big mirrors, postmodern light fixtures, stuffed animals, glass lamps, little hanging mobiles, and long garlands of fake pink flowers.

She stenciled the name Amelie onto a wall in pink. All the pink stood out in the rest of the room, including Amelie’s name, which was surrounded by black and grey flowers.

Petunia stood back and admired the room in satisfaction, Amelie laying in her new cot. Yes. She should have been an interior designer. That was perfectly lovely.

Petunia then went over and said, “Okay. Let’s go, you.” She raised an eyebrow. Amelie stared up at her with big green eyes framed by black bangs.

Petunia changed her into the soft yellow pineapple romper to start out with, picking one from the nearby set of drawers. Then she changed Amelie’s diaper - reluctantly. Grim and all business, with two fingers she slid the old one out, dumped it, and put the new one underneath. She cleaned the baby’s bottom clinically with wipes, determined as always to make everything perfectly neat and clean - a nice, thorough wash would have to be done with the lavender tonight; those wizards didn’t do _anything_ correctly - and then she snapped the eco friendly diaper closed and slid the romper back down over it.

There. She smiled. Finished. This wasn’t so bad.

She carried Amelie out to the kitchen and set her up in the high chair she’d been saving for her biological daughter. She fed her some soy formula first, then some fruits and veggies baby food. She refused to make undignified mouth noises, instead saying with surprising patience, “You have to eat. Come on, you have to eat,” and cleaning up after the girl’s mess in a rather harassed manner.

Surprisingly, Amelie did eat, rather quietly, smiling shyly. She was, Petunia now had the time to notice, a most agreeable little girl. Her black hair fell down around her chin.

Amelie finally fell asleep in her cot after the long day’s travails, and stayed asleep. Petunia walked wearily down into the kitchen, feeling somehow less perfect young woman, and decided to fix herself a cup of tea. She did have to get up one other time when Amelie began to fuss, and pictured herself doing that a _lot_ over the coming months, but for the most part after that things were calm.

Vernon came home from work and she gave him a tired peck on the cheek. Vernon wasn’t big on physical affection. “How… how was the girl?” he asked tentatively.

Petunia smiled with surprising peace. “Come up and see,” she said. Vernon walked curiously up the stairs after Petunia - and nearly had a heart attack when he saw the room.

His face a thundercloud, he stormed back down the stairs and Petunia hurried after him. She’d expected praise and instead he seemed furious.

“What is wrong with you?!” she asked angrily when they were out in the living room.

“You spent all that money on the girl!” he said, pained.

“Can’t we afford it?” Petunia challenged.

“Well - well of course we can, but -” Here, Vernon was caught. He would never say he didn’t have the money for something, in part because almost always it wasn’t true. “I thought we agreed the girl was to be quashed!”

“It’s not pandering to the girl to give her a bedroom, Vernon,” Petunia said acidically. “We always wondered what to do with those two rooms. Well I’m sick of looking at them empty and being reminded of everything we don’t have.” She said this last part quietly and Vernon looked surprised. “I plan on turning the other room into a sewing room and office,” she added boldly.

“Well don’t you just have everything all figured out.”

“Vernon -”

But Vernon was near laughing in disbelief. “You do realize you’re doing exactly what I told you not to. You’re using the girl as a replacement for the daughter you never got to have.”

Petunia’s nostrils flared. “How _dare_ you,” she said in a deadly voice.

“Petunia -”

“No, Vernon! If you see giving a child a bedroom as any of those things, we clearly do not have the same definitions of childcare!” And Petunia stormed away with dignity, feeling dramatic.

They ate dinner in silence, forewent their usual tea, and went to bed without talking. Amelie cried during the night. Vernon lay, cold and unmoving, until at last Petunia got up and went to rock the girl herself, telling her quietly, “Calm down. Calm down.”

Inside, she was furious. Absolutely furious. And not with the girl, surprisingly - with Vernon.


	2. What Vernon Doesn't Know

Petunia and Vernon quickly began a war.

Vernon put a stop on any extra funds being put out to buy anything for “the girl.” He would not even call Amelie by her lovely name. It was left to Petunia to do everything, from get up in the night to feed and play with Amelie during the day. Amelie stayed far away from Vernon, seeming shy and hesitant around him. After she went to bed, Vernon and Petunia would stay up late arguing.

“You do realize, don’t you, that she’s already belying every expectation you have of her!” Petunia spat one night.

“Explain that to me!” said Vernon incredulously.

“If she were even _half_ as malicious as you say she is, she would already have attacked you with her magic! You know she doesn’t like you!”

“You - you said - _ma_ -” Vernon wheezed out.

“Oh, Vernon, her father’s family have been wizards for over five hundred years and she lives in our house! Grow up!” Petunia snapped, and stormed away in a fit of immature pique.

But Vernon still insisted Amelie was Petunia’s “pretend replacement daughter.” So it fell to Petunia to raise Amelie through her toddler years.

She sang Amelie soft choir pieces and introduced her to classical and French ballet music. Vernon would have protested something he saw as “creative,” but Petunia decided there was nothing wrong with a bit of historical _culture._

On that note, she had certain standards for Amelie. She instructed her in near-perfect feminine manners and potty trained her and switched her to a full-on canopied cream colored bed with taffeta hangings unusually early.

She also did all the things she felt _someone_ should be doing with the child. Dipping into her own allowed funds, she bought books and read them to Amelie, encouraging an interest in reading, which was a quiet and intelligent activity. She had long conversations with Amelie, encouraging her speech, and also encouraged her walking, running, and mobile movement.

Amelie was always a rather quiet girl, not incredibly talkative, which suited Petunia just fine. She loved books and the lovely pictures in them, but was also a very active child - it seemed Petunia was always scolding her for running off or getting dirty or being rambunctious. She enjoyed going to the park and climbing trees, and seemed to have an unusual connection to animals.

Petunia hated most animals because of their mess, but she did buy her a cute little hamster in a tank named Marshmallow. Marshmallow became one of Amelie’s favorite things, and even though Petunia tried, she couldn’t get Amelie to stop talking to Marshmallow as if she were a human.

Usually Amelie was agreeable, though it was true she was not a rule-follower for rule’s sake. She did go through a temper tantrum phase. And while she never had a tantrum around Vernon after that first terrifying time - his booming voice shook the walls and made her cry - sometimes she did have them defiantly around Petunia, even when she was told to stop.

Amelie was hardly a perfect little girl, being a witch, and hardly her own child, so Petunia simply waited these tantrums out and ignored them. 

Every time Amelie broke a rule, she was given a time out - these happened rather a lot. Amelie was not a bratty child, but she was not afraid to push the limits of what was allowed when it suited her and was not afraid to explore where she didn’t belong. This, Petunia could not condone from an early age.

She did take Amelie to the park often, where Amelie became friends with other kids - she was friendly, if soft spoken - and began being invited to their houses. Petunia allowed this, justifying to Vernon, “How would it look if I refused? She has to be able to function socially with people her own age.”

Through these friends, Amelie learned bike riding and swimming. Petunia did take her to the local pool and did buy Amelie her very first bike.

Amelie was also popular with Yvonne and Petunia's other tea and bridge club members. Petunia continued to dress her in lovely, cute little things, and they found tiny, pixie-like Amelie with her black hair in baubled pigtails and her green eyes to be “a very pretty little girl.” Amelie was invited over to their houses to play with their children as well.

When Yvonne finally asked, confused, “Why doesn’t she have more toys?” Petunia was secretly triumphant.

“My friends are beginning to notice,” said Petunia to Vernon that night, “that Amelie has no toys.”

“Tell them she breaks all of them,” said Vernon flatly, not looking up from the evening paper. In everything but providing, Petunia was increasingly finding Vernon a truly unsatisfying husband. He’d always been opinionated, uninterested in her thoughts, and unaffectionate, but she’d seen him as a family man. Now she was finding out he wasn’t even that.

Petunia was increasingly thinking of her original idea - interior decorator, once Amelie went to school.

“People would believe that from a boy. From a girl?” said Petunia skeptically from the stove where _she_ was making dinner, as _she_ always had to do.

Vernon looked up.

“Well I’m not suggesting we spoil the girl!” said Petunia, exasperated. “Just give her a certain number of toys so my friends don’t think it’s odd. They like her, you know. Eventually, she’d make a lovely addition to dinner parties.”

“... Fine.” Vernon went back rather angrily to his newspaper.

So Amelie got some stuffed animals and a few dolls to add to her bedroom.

Petunia began enlisting Amelie’s “help” (in other words, teaching her) during big feasts involving cooking and baking. She wanted Amelie to form an early interest and ability in making her own food. She taught her how to brew different varieties of tea - starting that healthy addiction and obsession early - and how to cook French gourmet and how to bake delicious puddings. Same with gardening and decorating. She taught Amelie about neat English style gardens and classical French styles of home decoration, teaching Amelie how to leave every inch of their spacious suburban house spotless. Petunia was a dignified, straight backed, pressed dress, chiffon of gold hair, flowery perfume type woman and that became Amelie’s earliest feminine memory.

Of course, she always did all these things alongside Amelie - she never made Amelie do them for her.

Amelie found she had a weakness for chocolate, so as she began bathing herself, Petunia taught her the wonders of a bubble bath, some chocolate, and a book - even if just a picture book. Amelie also showed an early talent for all these avenues, for which Petunia was overjoyed. Encouraged, she began teaching Amelie about fashion, and in this Amelie was more alternative than her - she liked colorful, cute little vintage clothes, like button-up square-shouldered jackets and caps. Petunia found this acceptable, not too odd, and so cautiously, she encouraged it.

Vernon formed a dislike for Amelie’s long mess of wild, tangled black curls long. So Amelie and Petunia conspired on an idea, and cut Amelie’s hair in a lovely, vintage, chin-length black bob that curled around her face. It went perfectly with her new look.

Unable to help herself, Petunia began taking pictures of young Amelie and hanging them around the home. Vernon grumbled at first, but Petunia pointed out it would be strange to outsiders if they didn’t have any pictures of the girl they were openly raising in their home.

Amelie only began making her uncomfortable as she got older. Petunia did cautiously allow her some television, mostly children’s puppet shows and that kind of thing, carefully controlling what she could view. Puppet shows, like ballet music, Petunia deemed “safe.”

But the real problem came when Amelie began bringing drawings home from friends’ houses.

Petunia couldn’t forbid Amelie suddenly from seeing her friends for no reason. So she bit her lip and knelt down before the picture Amelie was proudly showing, torn. “Amelie,” said Petunia hesitantly, “your uncle insists it’s bad to create things.”

But instead of scrunching her nose up opinionatedly, as she was wont to do, Amelie seemed puzzled. “Is cooking and baking not making things, then?” she asked.

And here Petunia was stumped. Amelie had a point. Vernon seemed fine with creativity… as long as it benefited him, she realized with some anger.

Petunia smiled. “Of course. Keep drawing, Amelie, that’s very good.” And she was being honest; for a young child, the drawing _was_ good. Amelie beamed. “Maybe we can watch some cartoons later and give you some ideas. But - and this is very important - hide it all under your bed and never speak of it to your uncle. He must never know, okay?”

Amelie nodded seriously. “Okay.”

“Now, while you’re at it… why don’t I encourage your reading with some writing? You can start out writing about your life,” said Petunia slyly. “Your uncle doesn’t have to know about that, either…”

If she were going to break the rules, she might as well do it all the way. Vernon’s idea was stupid anyway. You couldn’t quash magic, and even if you could, burning pictures was not going to do the job. What Vernon didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.


End file.
